Not Like This
by Silver Rising
Summary: It wasn't supposed to be happening like this. Not with him. Not with Lucius Malfoy. A Lucius/Harry story
1. Not Like This

It wasn't supposed to be happening like this. Not this wild frenzy of teeth and nails and breath and heat. Not like this. Not against the wall of the study, not in the dead of night, with the fire burning and crackling, and the wind outside howling. Not in the old manor, with all its secrets and darkness, and hidden evils.  
  
And most of all, not with a man old enough to be his father. Not with a man that wanted him dead. Not with a man that followed his worst enemy, that appeared in his nightmares, that was a constant reminder of death and pain and evil. Not with Lucius Malfoy.  
  
But that's what it was. Lucius Malfoy, aristocratic and smug, with hidden motives, rolling in money and power...and Harry. Lucius Malfoy, the father of his rival, the henchman to his enemy, and the cause of the heat expanding outwards from his very soul.  
  
Backing him against the wall, tasting him, reveling in him, prompting his breathy moans, touching, feeling, clawing, grasping, everything. Hands twisting, knee wedged tightly between his own, lips covering his, tongue invading and harsh, yet leaving him light-headed.  
  
Leaving swirls of longing and pleasure and guilt. What would others say? Hermione? Ron? Siruis? Even Draco? Would they want to know the details? The hunger in the older man's eyes, the pain of being slammed into the stone wall, the heat from their bodies, the thrilling knowledge of how very wrong it all was, but how right, the impending release that Harry could feel building inside of him?  
  
How he didn't care anymore? That all he wanted was for that moment to never end, for the heat and the passion to drum inside at all times, for his shortness of breath to never be replenished, for the wild feeling of being delightfully bad to never leave?  
  
It was what he wanted. More than anything. To be able to forget, to be treated as though he weren't famous, to be taken, and broken, and to have everything inside of him rearranged. To leave his destiny, to have a secret that for once no one knew, to delve into something dark, to feel for the first time in too long.  
  
To have a taste of the darkness. And to like it. 


	2. It All Started With Draco

It all started with Draco. But then again, a lot of things did. His first meeting with a wizard his own age. His first rival. His first lover. Yes, Draco was a lot of things.  
  
Harry remembered their first physical contact. After all, they had never really fought each other, preferring words and wands to fists. But then Draco cornered him in a hallway, sneering at him, nudging his body into the wall, telling him he wasn't special, he wasn't a savior, he was plain old Potter, and nothing to worry about. And Harry kissed him.  
  
He grabbed the other boy and crashed him against his own chest, tongue invading his mouth, one hand reaching up to pull on his hair, the other reaching to press low between their bodies, eliciting a hiss from the other boy.  
  
And Draco responded hungrily, biting and nipping at Harry's skin, hand following the other boy's path and creeping downwards, squeezing and pressing and kneading. Feeling as their bodies responded as they rubbed and grabbed.  
  
And then Draco was on his knees, and Harry was released from the confines of his pants, and everything was forgotten, only feel and touch and pleasure was present, and Draco's mouth was hot, so hot, and Harry couldn't hold it any longer.  
  
And then it was Harry's turn, as he pushed the other on the floor, and pants were ripped off. And Harry and Draco merged as one, and they rocked and arched and whimpered and moaned and everything was complete.  
  
And then Lucius found out. 


	3. First Taste

Harry remembered his arrival at the Dursley's the previous summer. He remembered the hatred in their eyes, and he remembered the fear that lay beneath it. He remembered waking up screaming, screaming so loudly he was afraid he'd wake the dead. He remembered his "family" rushing in and yelling, just as loudly, for him to stop his childish hollering, and to get back to bed.   
  
He remembered collapsing on the floor, the pain in his scar white hot, searing, coursing straight through, like a knife, deeper and deeper, twisting, burning, hurting. He remembered the fear it caused his "family", how they pushed their chairs from the kitchen table in a hurry, leaving him writhing on the floor, in agony, fearing his head would split.  
  
He remembered the dreams, seeing Cedric, his parents, Voldemort, the Death Eaters, even the old man, again and again and again. He remembered the pressing guilt, and the depression that sank deep into his soul, turning everything black, feeding on his heart, sinking into his very being.   
  
He remembered the knife, the shining, silver, beautiful knife. He remembered pulling it, and pushing it, and watching the beautiful line of crimson that appeared, the release that helped him forget, the rush it gave him. He remembered how he felt alive, how he felt calmer, how he could push aside his visions of death and heartache.  
  
But then it was time for Hogwarts, the place where he could escape, and be free, and leave behind those that hated him. But he still wasn't free. He was famous, too famous, and feared, too feared. He wanted to scream, scream that he wasn't a murderer, scream that he wanted to save Cedric, scream that he never meant for anything to have gone wrong, but he couldn't scream it if he didn't believe himself.  
  
And no one understood. Not Ron, not Hermione, not Sirius, not anyone. They promised he'd feel better. He didn't. They promised he'd accept it. He didn't. They promised that he was fine, that he was okay, that he was great and wonderful and powerful, and was innocent. But he wasn't, he wasn't, and he couldn't be. He spiraled downwards, with no one to catch him, no net waiting for him, no hand to grasp onto. He was alone in the dark, without a light, without a friend, and without hope.  
  
But Draco. He didn't understand. But he didn't try to. He didn't think Harry was wonderful. He didn't think Harry was the savior that some people made him out to be. But he didn't think Harry was the monster that the rest of the people saw him as. He saw him as Harry, something he wanted, something he wanted for reasons other than a grasp of fame. He lusted for Harry, and that was one of the only emotions left that penetrated Harry's shield.   
  
So Harry went to him. And claimed him. And made him his own. But it wasn't enough. He liked the pain, he liked the mystery, he liked the thrill of knowing you could get caught, but he knew that there was something else out there.  
  
So Lucius came to find out. Walked in on them in fact. Raised a perfect eyebrow, perfect mouth contouring into something that resembled a smile, but sent chills deep into Harry's heart. Draco mumbled something and disentangled himself from the other boy, grabbing his clothes, and hurrying out of the room.  
  
Leaving Harry alone with Lucius, still wearing his peculiar smile, his eyes dancing with amusement and malicious intent. He encircled the bed, much like a predator to prey, expression never changing, eye's never leaving Harry's exposed form. Harry was no longer afraid - only curious. Curious to see what the older man would do, curious to how he was handling finding his heir in bed with his enemy, curious to see what was going to happen next.  
  
Nothing. Nothing happened. Lucius merely continued to watch him, and then walked straight out of the room, leaving Harry curious as ever, and wanting to know where he had been left.   
  
The next day Draco thought it would be better if they took a few days off, waiting to see if Lucius would pull anything, wanting to make sure they were safe. Draco said he would be going away with his mother for the holidays, without his father, to make sure he wouldn't get the brunt of his father's wrath. And so he went.  
  
But Harry wasn't sure that Lucius was angry, that he'd want to hurt them. So he went to find him. His curiosity had reached a climax, throbbing in his head, needing to know what went on behind Lucius' facade. He stole some floo powder - easy enough. He stole away to Dumbledore's office during dinner - easy enough. Floo'd right into Malfoy Manor - easy enough.  
  
It was as grand and as cold as he'd imagined. Darkness settling on his shoulders, much like the darkness settling inside him. Cold seeping into his bones, much like the cold surging through his body. A fire crackled, light escaping through an open doorway. Harry walked forward, drawn by the light, wanting to know what, or who, he'd find through the doors.  
  
He found his answer. Lucius, sitting elegantly in his chair, an older replica of Draco, but more poised somehow (though Draco was most certainly poised) and more elegant than Draco (though he'd never seen anyone more elegant than Draco before), and colder, darker, more thrilling than Draco (though Draco had been colder, darker, and more thrilling than anyone he'd met before). Lucius sat, staring straight at Harry, expecting him, knowing when he would come, and never questioning how or why. He sat staring, calculating, running his fingers along the rim of a wine goblet.  
  
And what fine fingers he had. Long and tapered, perfectly manicured, strong and able, yet elegant. Like the rest of him. His trademark golden hair, laying perfectly across his head, his slim arms on the arm of his chair, his muscular legs crossed elegantly, his beautiful, strange eyes perfectly focused. When he rose, Harry was almost saddened to see the picture of elegance disturbed. But he was much more interested in the approaching figure, closing in on him, eyes still trained on his face, flickering from his lips, to his glowing emerald eyes, to the famous scar that marred his forehead.  
  
And his eyes stayed on the scar, as his fingers rose to trace it, sending chills running along Harry's spine. No one had ever touched his scar before. No one. Yet Lucius did now, his finger tracing the lightening pattern, and Harry let him, as he held his breath, and stared straight into the other man's eyes. Then his other hand was running down his arm, perfect fingers leaving raised flesh in their wake. Then it made it's way downwards, lifting Harry's shirt, and stroking the warm skin that he met there, eyes never leaving Harry's.   
  
And the first hand left the scar to cup Harry's chin, as he tilted his own head slightly and leaned in, lips brushing softly against Harry's once, twice, three times. Pulling back to look at Harry's face. Eyes a shade darker than before. And he leaned in again and pressed his lips to Harry's again, this time harder, with more force, pushing his tongue through the barrier of flesh and teeth, tasting the sweetness and the bitterness, indulging in the forbidden. And Harry was excited, very excited, and feeling alive, so much more alive than he had in months, even more alive than he felt with Draco.   
  
He raised his own hands, one to grasp onto the golden strands of hair that shimmered and shined in the light of the fire, the other moving to settle on the other roaming hand, pushing it downwards, closer and closer to it's heated destination. Moving past clothes, into warmth and feeling and pleasure. Eliciting moans and sighs and sounds of pleasure that had never been emitted before. Those elegant, perfect fingers, stroking, stroking, stroking, so talented, so perfect, so experienced, knowing exactly what to do, and doing it perfectly, making sure that no one else could ever do the same, could never cause the same pleasure and pain that now coursed through Harry's body, dizzying him, causing his head to fall back, and causing the heat to expand to fever pitch.  
  
Though there was no actual "intimacy", Harry's experience with Lucius was better than anything else than he'd ever experienced in his entire life. It opened him up to his other side, to the side that wanted the impossible, took the impossible, and made it his own. The side that not only touched the darkness but reveled in it, dove in it, did as it pleased in it. The side that Harry now wanted. The side he now needed. The side he now experienced. The side he now wanted.  
  
The next day, he felt alive. Felt power in him, felt mystery in him. Ron and Hermione noticed, but didn't say anything. Draco noticed and was curious, anxious, wondering what had happened. But Harry ignored him all. There was only one thing he wanted now. Lucius. 


	4. Found

Ron and Hermione, in the grand scheme of things, were clueless. True, Hermione was exceptionally smart, and Ron exceptionally true, but neither could truly comprehend darkness, nor could either of them understand the need for release, for passion without love, for a taste of the forbidden.  
  
After awhile though, after many late nights, after many conspicuous absences, after many quickly thought of lies, they realized that something was going on. Harry was too restless, too quick to snap, too ... different.  
  
His eyes were unfocused, always staring off into something that only he could see. His hands drummed restlessly on his tables, his chairs, his books, constantly in motion, constantly going. His mind wandered, he wouldn't respond to teachers, he wouldn't respond to friends, he wouldn't even respond to Draco - just pushed right by him, leaving a look of confusion etched across his rival's face.  
  
He ignored Ron, often getting up and leaving right in the middle of a story, or joke, or question. He didn't see the pain in his friend's eyes, the feeling of abandonment, the worry, the questioning. Harry didn't see anything anymore - except for one thing.  
  
Images of elegant hands, glimmering strands of golden hair, beautifully unique silver eyes, swam across his vision, racing up his heartbeat, centering heat in his groin. A never ending desire swam through his veins, making him want and want and want, and making him sneak away, break the rules, and find the feelings he had forgotten he had.  
  
His fingers unconsciously traced patterns across his schoolbooks, patterns that he would later trace across firm muscles, soft skin, silky hair, burning heat itself. They moved constantly, as if afraid that they would forget the work of art they had been witness too, as though they were afraid that they would never again see the missing piece be assembled, or see the light go off in the darkness.  
  
He only thought of Lucius now, ignoring Draco, who had to suspect that something was amiss. He constantly asked what was wrong, why Harry was acting differently, why things were so cut off and cold. But Harry had no answers. He shrugged everything off, immersing himself completely in his forbidden meetings, the joining of two bodies that were meant to be enemies, that were meant to stay far away from each other, that were meant to give pain, not receive pleasure.  
  
Those meetings enabled Harry to block out the real world - to bring him to a state of bliss, wiping out the memories of death and betrayal and hatred that plagued his days and nights. To feel those elegant fingers kneading, pulling, massaging, making his eyes roll back in his head, prompting low moans to spill out of his throat.  
  
And those soft lips, harsh yet not, warm and intense, pressing so nicely against his own. Soft tongue, probing his mouth, dueling with his own. Skin against skin, so hot, so very, very hot, searing. Hands gripping and restraining, bodies aligning, hardness slipping into softness, hot, tight, pleasure. In and out, in and out, over and over again, a steady rhythm, pleasure building, stronger, harder, faster, coming, coming, so very, very close, so...close...now.  
  
Out of breath, gasping, body shaking with feelings, so intense, so very intense, still embedded, still gripping, skin still against skin. Soft tongue dragging along soft skin, leaving a trail, breath blowing softly, flesh standing on edge, stirring feelings once more, fingers back again, prodding, finding the heat, the tightness, coming home.  
  
Back for more. Growls emitted, whimpers of pleasure, sighs of contentment, cries of having the forbidden fruit splayed out for their tasting. Silky blonde hair brushing against his shoulder, murmurs of how very right it felt, murmurs of how it was wrong, but how it didn't matter, murmurs about how very dangerous it all was, murmurs of defiance.  
  
Those silver eyes, darkened with lust, boring into his own, seeing right through him, reading his soul, delving into his very being. Discovering every hidden thought, every vision, every feeling. Knowing him. Owning him. Making him his own.  
  
That was how they were found - staring straight at each other, eyes locked, bodies entwined. They never noticed the door opening, never noticed the man entering, never noticed the red eyes, red with hints of green, of a person from the past, of a memory from another time. The other man with long, elegant fingers, but fingers that caused pain, took lives, and rejoiced in doing so. The other man with silky hair, but black hair, black as night, black as the darkness that engulfed him. The other man with the muscular body, etched in all the right places, mouth-watering, poised to pounce, ready to leap.  
  
The other man who went by the name of Voldemort. 


	5. Propositions

"You're nothing but a bastard child," Vernon had spat. "I'll bet your mother was a whore! Just like her to be one! Your whole family was a bunch of bloody freaks!"  
  
Harry had turned his head and accepted the tirade. Anything to end the onslaught of insults that his uncle hurled at him. Anything to stop the pain.  
  
*******  
  
"Harry fucking Potter. You think you're so special, don't you. Just because Dumbledore says so. Well, my father says he's a crackpot old fool, and I think that if it came down to it, my father is more powerful, and has more powerful alliances than that old fool will ever have," said Draco arrogantly, eyes narrowed in contempt.  
  
Harry resisted the urge to snap back at the other boy. "You're father is powerful. And he does have many powerful alliances. He's lucky in that way," he said softly, startling the other boy into silence.  
  
*************  
  
"Oh come off it, Harry! You think you're so fucking perfect! Like you have to listen to no one! You're not! You're just an ordinary boy! You hear that? An ordinary boy! Nothing special! A little bit of money and a freak accident! That's all you are!" screamed Ron, chest heaving, face bright red.  
  
Harry looked straight at him. "You're right, you know. I am nothing special. Nothing at all," he said.  
  
Ron looked horribly taken aback, face flushed with guilt. "Harry, I'm sorry, so sorry, I didn't mean it" he began, taking a step forward.  
  
Harry held his arm out. "No. Don't. You're right. I'm nothing." He turned and left.  
  
***************  
  
"Harry Potter. What a pleasant surprise. Although considering the circumstances, I'd say you were the one who just experienced the pleasant surprise," said Voldemort, walking slowly towards the bed containing the two men.  
  
Harry's head snapped toward the voice, his eyes growing wide in horror. He tried to squirm out from beneath Lucius, but the other man's body pressed him into the bed.  
  
"What are you doing?" exclaimed Harry. "Are you fucking out of your mind?" He glared up at Lucius, who looked down into his face, a curious expression across his own.  
  
"Harry, my boy, you do realize that you're not going anywhere, I assume," said the Dark Lord, the corners of his face tugging upwards into a sadistic smirk. The look on his face chilled Harry's heart, sent ice running through his veins, turned him very, very cold.  
  
"This was set up, wasn't it?" he asked, feeling Lucius' strong arms holding him against the bed. He looked at Voldemort. "You're a bloody moron. Everyone knows that," he said. He turned his attention back to Lucius. "But you. I expected better....but why would I? I should have known all along you'd still be a bastard," he said, quietly but venomously.  
  
"That's enough, Mr. Potter," said Voldemort, as he stepped closer to the bed. He ran a finger down Lucius' spine, causing the other man to shiver, and then turn his head away. He continued to stroke the other man's skin, though his eyes never left Harry's. They bore right into him, as though trying to figure out everything that lay beneath their brilliant emerald exterior, as though attempting to pull his soul out, right from his body.  
  
His hand left Lucius, and moved to touch Harry's skin, stroking softly. Harry flinched but didn't pull away. He willed his eyes to glare back at Voldemort, tried his best to send him his message of contempt and disgust, tried to blind him with his hatred of him. The touch of those long, cold fingers was horrible, it sent daggers of ice shooting through him, made his breath come in short gasps, caused his head to swim.  
  
And then they were gone, as the Dark Lord drew his hand away, though leaving his eyes still trained on Harry's. A thoughtful expression showed in them, as though he was pondering something.  
  
"Harry," he said, " we have a proposition for you."  
  
Harry laughed bitterly, glancing quickly up at Lucius, whose head was still turned, eyes avoiding his.  
  
"I'll bet that you do," he said harshly, feeling his legs becoming numb, as Lucius grew tired and started laying his body atop Harry's.  
  
"You've probably kidnapped a friend or something. I'll bet you're going to offer me a swap, them for Dumbledore, or something like that."  
  
Voldemort chuckled darkly. "No, although I'll keep that idea in mind." He took a step closer. "I want you to join me. Willingly, preferably."  
  
Harry stared at him, as though he had grown another head. "You WHAT? You want ME, to join You?" he said, and then started laughing. He laughed harder and harder, fearing he that if he stopped he'd go crazy. "That's ridiculous," he finally said, attempting to catch his breath. "You've always wanted me dead."  
  
Voldemort quirked an eyebrow. "Maybe, when you were younger. I considered you a nuisance, a little boy with too much stupid bravery. But I've watched you, Harry. You're much different now - darker, more sinister. You can feel the darkness now, Harry, can't you? It's all around you. Your aura is as black as midnight. You're ripe now," he said, his voice as sharp as a razor blade, eyes dancing maliciously.  
  
"Never," said Harry. "Never, I would never join you," he said. "You killed my parents, you killed my friends, you've killed over and over again, and you expect me to join you? Have I no common sense? Have I no morals? The day I join you is the day the world ends," he spat. He figured that he now had nothing else to lose.  
  
He tried to sit up, but Lucius' hands were suddenly pressing his shoulders into the bed. "If I were you, I would not treat the Dark Lord as such," he said.  
  
"I don't care what you think!" spat Harry. "I listened to you once, and look where that got me!"  
  
"Enough!" yelled Voldemort. "Enough. You have chosen to disobey me. Let us see, then, how you deal with the consequences." He opened the door, and motioned for someone outside to come in. A man came into the room, pushing someone else in front of him. Someone with silky, blonde hair, someone elegant and proud...another Malfoy  
  
Draco.  
  
He first saw the Dark Lord, and glared at him, not with hatred, but with annoyance. Then he saw his father, and his eyes widened considerably. And then he saw Harry, beneath his father's body. His eyes widened again, and then filled with pain, a look that tore Harry's heart, that made his stomach churn. And then his eyes filled with anger. They turned a dark, dark grey, almost black. His other emotions were quickly shuttered behind the darkness, and this made Harry's heart plummet, made bile rise in his throat, made his throat constrict.  
  
"Well," said Draco after some time. "Harry. Harry the fucking whore. I should have known you'd be fucking around. You sad excuse for a person." His eyes were still full of hatred, his face loosing any of the color that it once had. "You sad, sad fucker."  
  
Voldemort looked pleased. He moved to stand behind Draco, and put his arm on his shoulder. "So, young Draco," he said, "now you see the real Harry. Now you know how treacherous he is - how very disgusting."  
  
Draco continued to stare straight at Harry. Voldemort continued. "I am giving you the option, Mister Malfoy, to put an end to this," here he paused, his gaze following Dracos', "abomination."  
  
He pulled Draco's wand from his pocket. "Here, Mister Malfoy," he said, handing the wand to Draco. Draco snatched it. "All you have to do is say the words. Two, simple words, and it's all over. Two, simple words, and there's no more pain, no more heartache, no more Harry," the Dark Lord whispered, voice cold as ice.  
  
Draco glanced down at the wand, then at Harry, then back to the wand. He raised the wand. He pointed it right at Harry.  
  
"Goodbye, Harry," he said, his voice quiet and heartbreaking. 


	6. Power and Pleasure

"Avada...Ava....SHIT!" exclaimed Draco, his voice breaking, falling onto his knees, the wand dropping with a clatter, rolling underneath the bed. "I... I can't... I can't... I just can't, you fucking bastard!" he screamed, head buried in his hands, tears leaking down his face.  
  
Voldemort looked disgusted. "You weak fool," he whispered. He looked at Draco with contempt, as he grabbed the back of his robes, hoisting him to his feet.  
  
Draco looked furious, as he trained his eyes on Harry's. Harry could see the pain, the suffering, the hatred, the fear, all swirling in the tragic beauty of the deep grey.  
  
Voldemort pushed Draco forward, so the he stumbled onto the bed, knocking hard against Harry and his father. He tried to get off quickly, but Voldemorts' hands were pinning him down.  
  
"Lucius," he hissed, "get off the bed." The other man complied, sliding out from the sheets, moving to stand across the room, shivering from his lack of clothing. Harry felt cold, from the loss of body heat, from the rage rolling off Draco, from the piercing stare of the man that killed his parents, killed his friends, killed at will.  
  
"Now," Voldemort spat, "since young Master Malfoy seems so fond of our Mister Potter, let's give them a chance to catch up, shall we?" His strange red eyes seemed to glow in the semi-light of the room, seemed to flicker with hatred and evil and amusement. Draco looked at Harry in surprise.  
  
"What do you mean?" he asked, voice wavering slightly. Voldemort smiled, a terrible, terrible sight. His lips curled upwards, exposing sharp canines, which glinted like knives.  
  
"Why, Master Malfoy, I'm allowing you some time to have Harry, before I kill you both," he said softly, eyes dancing. Lucius made a sound from the corner, but the Dark Lord hushed him. "Come now, Lucius, see how weak and pathetic your son is? He can't even say the words properly, never mind have the strength to actually kill." Lucius' eyes glinted, but he stayed where he was.  
  
"Now. Come on, have at it," Voldemort continued, a sick look of glee on his features. Harry looked at Draco. He felt sick, felt horrified, felt completely powerless to the situations around him. Draco gave a shudder, then pushed himself up on his elbows, glaring at Harry. It was too much. Harry could feel Draco's strong glare from next to him, Lucius' pointed stare from across the room, and Voldemort's sick, twisted eyes, trained on his nude form.  
  
"Now!" Voldemort barked. Dracos' face drained of color. He twisted himself fully around, maneuvered himself onto Harry, eyes shutting tight. He lowered his head, pressed his lips against Harrys', tongue darting out to push past the barrier. Harry's head swam, as he felt Draco's body settle over his own, felt Lucius still staring, felt the fear course through his veins, making the blood pound in his ears. He felt like he was drowning, drowning with no one to grab hold of him. No one to save him.  
  
A hiss of laughter escaped Voldemort's throat. "Hurry now, boys. We've not much time."  
  
Draco whimpered against Harrys' mouth. Harry felt his hands move against their own will, to Draco's shirt, shaking, as they undid the buttons. He ran his hands over the familiar skin, feeling the warmth radiating off it, feeling it shake beneath his hands. Draco's own hands slipped downwards to tug his pants off, shivering as he succeeded, and pressed his body fully along Harry's.  
  
Harry, much to his disgust, found himself unbearably aroused, felt his cheeks flushing with shame. He moved to grab Draco fully, hearing the small cry the other boy gave as he did so. He gave a few strokes, watching as Draco tossed his head back, felt as Draco's tears fell onto his own face.  
  
His eyes went to Voldemorts', seeing the glee that was reflected in them. "Lucius," he hissed. "Go on now, have your share of fun."  
  
Lucius looked slightly disgusted, although he moved towards the bed. He looked at the Dark Lord, a strange expression across his face. "Go on, Lucius. Don't make me angry."  
  
Draco's eyes snapped open and widened, as he felt his father stroke his back, as he saw his fathers' other hand reach around to stroke Harry's face. He shook even harder, making Harry tremble beneath him.  
  
Voldemort still watched, eyes trained directly upon the unfolding scene, fire burning in them.  
  
Lucius moved behind Harry, pushing his back up. Harry, not ready for it, tumbled forward, reversing his position, landing atop Draco. Lucius kissed his shoulder, trailed his tongue along the ridge of his spine, nipped at his earlobe. Draco, still shaking, was grabbing at Harry, pumping now. Harry himself was on overload, unsure of what to do, unsure of if he could even do anything at all. Lucius moved a hand down Harry's back, fingers preparing him. Harry choked and turned his head away, only to meet the gaze of Voldemort.  
  
He stood against the wall, staring, eyes flickering, fingers clenched at either side. In that moment he looked like Tom, the Tom that Harry had come face to face to. It sent a fresh wave of terror through Harry's system. He remembered being in the chamber, being terrified of dying, praying that the other boy wouldn't kill him. Riddle had only been a boy then, but he had been so far gone, even at that point, that it was enough to haunt you, to send fear driving through your heart, to make your blood run cold, to make your head spin. And now, as he was older, more evil, it was a hundred time worse, a thousand times worse. Those horrible eyes, the features that while still handsome, were etched with evil, etched with death and destruction, letting you know that death and defeat were unavoidable, that there was nothing that anyone could do to save you now.  
  
Harry's thoughts went back to the situation at hand, as he felt Lucius push into him. He gave a low moan, hands grabbing Draco's shoulders, nails digging into soft flesh, making Draco moan as well. And then Harry was preparing Draco, was pushing in, was completing the twisted puzzle that Voldemort had concocted.  
  
His senses were going haywire, all he could feel was pleasure laced with pain, as he moved his hips forward and backward, into the only men he had ever had feelings for. Draco was breathing heavily, hands clutching Harry, head thrown back on the bed. Lucius was steadily pumping, hips moving in a rhythmic pattern. His mouth left Harry's skin only to moan or sigh, and then was back again, biting, nipping, licking, sucking. The older man was holding Harry's hips, creating their own rhythm, as Harry pushed between him and his son. His movements were jerkier now, and he put a hand on his son's shoulder, in order to steady himself, and perhaps steady Draco as well.  
  
And then Harry's vision exploded, as the most intense pleasure he had ever had tore through his body, making him shudder, causing a howl to be ripped from his throat. And Draco came too, screaming. And then Lucius came, clamping his teeth onto Harry's shoulder, moaning against his skin, body shaking.  
  
All three collapsed onto the bed. Draco was crying, curling himself into a ball. Lucius pulled away, slumping to the ground. And Harry, Harry sat against the headboard, gasping for breath, terrified that he would die on the spot.  
  
Voldemort laughed softly, maliciously. He pulled his own wand from his robes, twisted it between his fingers, spun it around and around. "How does it feel now," he asked, "to have a final taste of the forbidden? To know that that was the last time you'll get to feel that pleasure?" His eyes narrowed. "To know that to disobey me is to seal your own fate? That to go against power is to be killed by power? I failed once with you, Mister Potter, but that will not happen again." He stopped twirling his wand.  
  
He snapped his fingers, and Harry felt his body get up. He struggled, but couldn't stop himself from moving to stand before Voldemort, who grinned wickedly. "And... how does it feel to be helpless? To be nothing? To be powerless?" he asked, and then bent down and captured Harry's mouth with his own. Nausea overcame him, as Voldemort kissed him, as his tongue danced with his own, as his long, spidery fingers grasped his skin, as pain shot through him, as terror burned. He choked but couldn't pull away, his knees buckled, his head spun, his heart pounded. Voldemort finally released him, letting him collapse upon the floor.  
  
"How does it feel? Does it scare you? Does it terrify you?" He kicked Harry in the ribs, making him gasp in pain. He put his foot firmly on Harry, his boots digging into his flesh. "Does it, you horrible nuisance? Are you scared? Are you wishing for death?"  
  
Harry gasped again. "I wish for nothing." Voldemort growled.  
  
"You are a stupid boy! A very stupid boy, indeed. A meddling, disgusting, little worm, that has no place being alive!" he hissed, digging his heel further into Harry.  
  
"Stop," said Lucius suddenly. The Dark Lord's eyes flew towards his follower.  
  
"What, Lucius, did you just say to me? Did you dare to tell me to stop?" he asked, voice dripping with venom. Lucius paled but looked determined.  
  
"I said stop it. You are too powerful and terrible to be torturing the poor boy like this," he said, his handsome features revealing nothing. Voldemort looked slightly confused, as though unsure of whether to listen to the other man, or simply kill him as well.  
  
Voldemort laughed then, a high, cold laugh. "Why, Lucius," he said slowly, "I rather hope that you are not too attached to the boy. I sincerely do." He looked down at Harry. "For your sake and his." Then he kicked Harry once more, and the world turned black. 


	7. Alone

**A/N: Final Chapter! Thank you so much, to everyone that had such nice reviews: vashsunglasses, Lyssander, Rube, Kenna Hijja, Lidi, Rae, Lady Doncaster, Deity, and Maeglin Yedi. It meant a lot to know that people enjoyed my story ^_^  
  
**Also... this chapter is a bit depressing. I don't know where it comes from, but I have these morbid little plot bunnies lurking about my head. I hope you like it, and don't think it's too much. If it's truly horrendous, I'll do a re-write. If you're interested in any of my other work, I'll be updating "The Lines We Walk" soon. Ginny/Riddle is so intriguing! Anyway, enough of my ranting - on to the story!  
  
  
  
It was black. Not just black, but deep, penetrating black. The kind of black that smothered you, rolled over you, took over you completely.  
  
That was what Harry first saw, as his body slowly gained consciousness. He groaned as the pain hit him head on, his head throbbing, pain shooting through his chest with every breath he took. He coughed, a deep racking cough, and blinked, attempting to clear his vision. His glasses were on the floor, so he reached out and grabbed them, and put them on.  
  
He peered around the room, noting that, seemingly, he was alone. He was still undressed, but his clothes were laid out on the bed, neatly, as though someone had kindly remembered. Harry doubted anyone really cared. Harry knew no one cared.  
  
He sat up, feeling the blood rush to his head, feeling his limbs shake, feeling his body sway. He struggled to his feet and made it as far as the bed, before he collapsed again. He gasped for breath, feeling the pain in his ribs, certain that several were broken. Slowly, he dressed, taking his time, easing his body first into his boxers and pants, and then into his shirt.  
  
Finally finished, he gathered his strength and stood up, holding onto the bedpost for support. After several deep breaths, he limped to the door, barely managing to pull it open. Torches glittered in the hallway, emitting small sparks of fire, but not really giving off much light. Harry stumbled down the hall, one hand following the wall, slowly making progress. As the hallway same to an end, he walked into something lying on the floor, almost pitching right over it.  
  
Glancing down, his stomach lurched, heart pounding. It was Lucius, limp on the floor, face paler than usual, pale as winter snow. Harry stared at him for a long time, just looking at him, seeing his features, his hair, the way his face looked finally relaxed, unguarded. He slowly bent down and put his fingers to the other man's neck.  
  
There was no pulse. Harry sat heavily on the ground, still staring. One hand moved to touch Lucius, smoothing over his hair, brushing against his lips, running down his arm. Harry sat and sat, yet no one came. There was no sign of Voldemort. No sign of Draco. No sign of anyone.  
  
After what seemed an eternity, Harry stood up and left the hallway, left Lucius, left the only happiness he had had in a long, long time. He made his way to the study, all the while looking out for anyone else. There was no one.  
  
He finally retrieved his supply of floo powder, called out Hogwarts, and stepped into the still-burning fire. Moments later he stumbled into the Headmaster's office, which mercifully was empty. Harry walked towards Gryffindor Tower, dazed, eyes unfocused, seeing nothing. He was astonished to find himself in front of the Tower, amazed that he had gotten all the way to the tower, never mind out of Malfoy Manor in the first place.  
  
He gave the portrait the password, and eased himself through the frame, finally arriving in the common room. A few people were awake, some older students gossiping by the fire, a few younger students diligently studying.  
  
Harry saw none of this. His legs kept on moving, as he made his way to the stairs that led to his dormitory. Ron and Hermione met him there, faces confused, worried. Ron put a hand on his shoulder and opened his mouth to say something, but Harry shrugged him off. Hermione, too, started to speak, but Harry silenced her with a shake of his head. He pushed past them, ignoring their worry and concern, and made his way, alone, to his dormitory.  
  
Alone, he entered the room. Alone, he undressed and eased himself into bed. Alone, his mind surged, images flashing before his eyes, mind unwilling to stop the pictures that he saw; Lucius, touching him. Draco, crying. Voldemort, angry and violent. Lucius and Draco taking him, being taken by him.  
  
Alone he was racked with guilt, racked with pain. Ron and Hermione did not go up to him. They wouldn't understand. They couldn't understand. He was alone.  
  
The next day Harry found his way to the Great Hall. He couldn't eat, the smells made his stomach churn. Ron and Hermione still stared, but there was nothing they could do. There was nothing anyone could do.  
  
Harry saw Draco across the hall. His face was bruised, a deep purple welt under his left eye. He caught Harry's gaze and returned it, staring, searching, probing. Eyes revealing nothing, only an empty shell. Then he turned away. And Harry was left alone.  
  
In the end, Harry was always alone. 


End file.
